


fetch the bolt cutters

by twoheadedcalf



Series: widofjord week 2020. [3]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Dissociation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Off screen Torture, Pre-Relationship, Tenderness, i guess?, kind of its ambiguous, the mighty nein in the bg again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:35:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25055539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoheadedcalf/pseuds/twoheadedcalf
Summary: And then, suddenly, it feels like it’s burning, stinging him from inside. Fjord hisses, looking down at his palm. It looks normal enough, aside from the angry welts from the scratching, even though he has the impression it should be ugly red and bleeding.It’s the hand with the scar from Dashilla’s Lair, Fjord realizes abruptly, and Caleb comes unbidden to his brain. A cold wind blows and he shudders. Caleb isn’t safe, Fjord thinks, and knows it’s true.“Fjord?” Darrow’s voice breaks him out of it. He looks concerned. “Are you okay?”“Yes, I just remembered I have a thing with my—” He can’t find a word. The scar pinches. “I have to go.”Fjord turns tail and runs.*day three of widofjord week 2020: blood pact.
Relationships: Fjord/Caleb Widogast
Series: widofjord week 2020. [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1811557
Comments: 9
Kudos: 168





	fetch the bolt cutters

**Author's Note:**

> for the 'blood pact' prompt of widofjord week 2020!! check them out @widofjordweek on twitter!!! hope u guys like it!!

Rexxentrum isn’t exactly a welcoming city. It isn’t _meant_ to be, Fjord knows. It was built as a fortress, the capital of an Empire — it’s _supposed_ to look imposing. The tall stone buildings, the monuments, the pavements, the crowds of people — it’s _supposed_ to press against your skin and make you want to curl up and hide.

Even to him, someone who grew up in the large urban sprawl of a place that sees a lot of movement, it feels oppressive. There’s just no way to put up with all the concrete clogging the horizon when there’s no pretty sky painted blue behind it, no regal ships arriving from west and south, no sun beating on your skin and letting you taste sunshine.

That’s the worst of it, he’s pretty sure. The goddamn weather. Sure, Rosohna is rainy, but the temperature is mostly the same everyday: pleasant. Rexxentrum is _fucking cold_. It drizzles all day and the wind blows hard through every street and it’s _cold_. Fjord can’t stand it.

And yet, here they are again. Walking through the hard stone walkways, while he tries not to feel too self-conscious about the way his tusks are _definitely_ showing now, and while he tries not to glance nervously at Caleb, who’s already gone completely silent and weirdly blank, like every other time they have been in this city (way too often, for his tastes).

He barely understands why they are in this town again when it’s obviously the worst place for them to be in. Something about DeRogna? Not that it matters. They are not taking any jobs from here when they know exactly the kind of harm it could cause: hurt more innocents or further some dangerous research or— create more cases like Caleb’s.

He hates that — thinking of Caleb as an incident, a historical fact, instead of a person.

They return to the same inn from last time, for familiarity’s sake, just so there’s nothing to add to the mounting paranoia.

Caleb picks a room just for himself, much to Veth’s dismay, and rushes up the stairs without dinner before Fjord can even think about pulling him aside to talk.

Maybe rest will do everyone some good.

* * *

They decide to take the following day off because apparently they need even more rest. Fjord’s not complaining. He feels exhausted to his very bones. But there’s also something like shame curling in his chest for spending more time in Rexxetrum than is necessary.

Caleb doesn’t come down from his room in the morning, although Beau says she spoke to him through the bedroom door. Something curdles in Fjord’s stomach — Caleb hasn’t eaten anything since yesterday and his breakfast then (an apple and a few pieces of cheese) wasn’t much. He feels queasy just thinking about it.

He looks down at his bowl of fruit salad and the small loaf of bread he has on the side. It seems like too much all of a sudden.

Breakfast is a quiet affair. The food tastes sour on his tongue and it takes him so long to eat that, by the time he’s done, the others are already moving on with their day. Jester is going to commit heresy under Beau’s careful guard and supervision. Caduceus and Yasha are checking in with the bone lady. Veth…. He doesn’t even want to know.

Fjord hesitates.

He’d rather not stay in his room and stew in his own anxiety but leaving Caleb behind — a wizard in his ivory tower — churns his stomach. He has the impression that Caleb has been more and more alone lately. Alone at the Xhorhaus, his bedroom on a whole different floor from everyone else’s. Alone in his goals, in his beliefs — both he and Jester have been relentless in their defense of Essik but for completely different reasons, Fjord knows.

He stops by the counter, gets another, smaller bowl, and makes his way up.

Caleb doesn’t answer the first time knocks on the door.

He knocks again. No answer.

He shuffles closer to the door, and whispers, just loud enough that Caleb might hear from the other side, “It’s me, Caleb. I have something for you. It’ll be quick, I promise.”

There’s a moment of silence when Fjord thinks he might have to eat the bowl himself.

Then, there’s a small shuffle and the door opens.

Caleb doesn’t look miserable, which is what he was half-expecting. Instead, Caleb looks _empty_. Vacant. His clothes are pin straight and so are the covers on the bed behind him.

He hasn’t slept. Of course not.

Fjord swallows and looks down.

“I know you haven’t eaten, so I…” He glances up, takes a peek at Caleb’s impassive face. “I brought this.” He extends the bowl. Caleb takes it gingerly and doesn’t say anything. “And a loaf of bread.” It’s small and he’d been planning to snack on it later but—

Caleb looks wan, his features hard set and icy to match this city’s grey atmosphere. Fjord doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like it at all. he thinks about it, staying here with Caleb for the say, keeping an eye on him, giving some support.

Before he suddenly remembers Caleb waiting for him in the dark, the panic he’d felt, the walls closing in on him, the twinkle of his copper hair in the dark and he lets go.

Taking a step back after silently watching his face for a moment, Fjord says, “Please eat.”

Caleb doesn’t nod. Just says, softly, “Thank you, Fjord,” before closing the door.

* * *

He’s pretty sure he’s got Rexxentrum mostly figured out now. It’s not that no one here likes to have fun. It’s more that the fun is _inside_ , probably to hide from sporadic rainfall.

Once one leaves the fancy district that surrounds the royal palace, it’s like the city wakes up. It’s close to lunch time, which means taverns are so full that he can hear the bustling from outside.

He’s passed by a couple of delicatessens that had bards proudly reciting awfully cheesy sonnets and by another parlor roping watchers into play reenactment. 

He even got to discover the joy of chocolate stuffed strudels from a street vendor nestled between two textile merchants. He’s so focused on enjoying the last piece of it that he doesn’t manage to dodge the guy heading his way.

Big, steady hands on his biceps keep him from falling down. He clutches his strudel.

“Fjord?”

“Darrow!” The man isn’t wearing a cloak and there are small rain droplets all over his faces and the wispy strands of hair around it. A smile forms on his rosy lips. His dark stubble makes him look ruggedly handsome. Fjord feels his ears start to twitch and barely reigns himself in. “Hey.”

Darrow leans back, righting Fjord with him and patting his shoulder. “Hey, man. You around again. I thought that was a one time thing.”

It doesn’t sound accusing, or like he’s needling for something. Just friendly. Like he’s glad to see him again.

“Change of plans.” Fjord says around a smile.

“Yeah, I noticed.” He shuffles his feet, glances down the street. Looks to Fjord again and his voice sounds different when he says, “I never did get you those corn dogs.”

Fjord pops the last bite of the strudel inside his mouth and smiles wide enough to show his tusks. “I still have room for more.”

Darrow barks out a laugh, saying, “Good man,” before leading Fjord through the streets of Rexxentrum.

* * *

They _did_ get corn dogs from a food cart trailing down one of the side streets and they were somehow even oilier than the ones he was used to from the coast.

Fjord murmured, “These remind me of fish skewers,” and that had set them down the road of talking about growing up and living in the Menagerie Coast. Fjord carefully skimmed through the orphanage years into working on ships right to joining The Mighty Nein and the difference Melora made on his life.

Darrow couldn’t quite tell what had come first for him: faith or adventure. He spoke of it with a confident earnestness that made Fjord smile.

It was right as they were rounding a corner, finally reaching the Chantry of the Dawn, with artists still trying to set up new glass stained windows through the hole had burst through, that his hand started to itch.

It’s fine at first, just a tickle at the center of his palm that he scratches at with his thumbnail as Darrow talk about days at the beach in Gwardan, sunning himself until he feels sick with happiness and brightness.

The itch doesn’t stop. It keeps growing and growing, so bothersome Fjord thinks he may break skin, so distracting that he misses the lull in the conversation he was waiting for to mention Melora and connect their two gods together.

And then, suddenly, it feels like it’s burning, stinging him from inside. Fjord hisses, looking down at his palm. It looks normal enough, aside from the angry welts from the scratching, even though he has the impression it should be ugly red and bleeding.

It’s the hand with the scar from Dashilla’s Lair, Fjord realizes abruptly, and Caleb comes unbidden to his brain. A cold wind blows and he shudders. _Caleb isn’t safe_ , Fjord thinks, and knows it’s true.

“Fjord?” Darrow’s voice breaks him out of it. He looks concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I just remembered I have a thing with my—” He can’t find a word. The scar pinches. “I have to go.”

Fjord turns tail and runs.

* * *

He arrives at the inn, panting and disheveled, cloak and hair wet from the faint drizzle outside. The door snaps closed behind him. Fjord doesn’t even register the stares he gets from other customers and from the tavern keeper herself, just makes his way upstairs in a rush.

He feels both like he took too long and arrived here too fast. His whole hand burns, like it’s been scalded by hot water.

The door to Caleb’s room is locked because of course it fucking is.

Fjord breaks the door handle as quietly as he can and summons the sword as he steps inside, prepared for anything, prepared to _do_ anything for Caleb.

Except he points the sword towards no enemy. No signs of struggle. There’s no one inside. Not even Caleb.

Fjord is panting, completely lost for a moment, feeling despair slowly spread over his body.

He vanishes the sword, makes his way downstairs and then outside.

He looks around and everything looks grey again, no joy to it. Rexxentrum is a big city. Caleb could be anywhere. He could be _out_ of the city by now.

The sting in his hand starts spreading to his wrist, sharp prickling all over the sensitive spot.

As if pulled by some unknown force, Fjord stumbles to his right. He looks up and sees, in close distance, the pointy ends of the archmages’ towers. His heart beckons. His hand is on fire.

Fjord runs.

* * *

Entering The Candles is surprisingly easy, even for a half-orc, when you have the Cerberus Assembly symbol, a charming presence, and a couple of excuses.

The Crownsguard don’t recognize him as part of the group who took down cultists at the Dawnfather’s temple, which is all good. The Mighty Nein don’t need more questions coming their way if things go south.

Fjord spent the whole walk (run, really) here planning how, exactly, he’ll lay siege to an archmage’s tower in the middle of Rexxentrum but he’s prepared to do anything to get Caleb. Do anything _for_ Caleb.

But that’s not what happens. Instead, the tether leads him to a mansion near one of the towers, as pristine and cold as all the other buildings here. 

He misses Rosohna very starkly.

By the time he knocks on the door, his hand and his forearm are numb and the sting has just reached his bicep. 

Very suddenly, right before a servant opens the door, Fjord realizes the place he’s walking into. Who probably lives here. Who, in Rexentrum, is relevant to Caleb’s history, but not as much as Ikithon.

Fjord tries not to let dismay show on his face when he talks to the man in front of him. Mentioning Astrid’s name is a gamble. Except it isn’t. Not really.

The servant invites him inside.

* * *

The space he’s left in to stew and wait for the lady of the house is expansive and feels empty despite the furniture spread around the room. Fjord has come to see himself as a man who’s not particularly big but everything here is so perfectly placed that he feels like a bull lumbering through a china shop.

Or maybe Fjord’s only got that impression because he knows he’s about to participate in a match of verbal chess he didn’t train for while Caleb’s life is possibly on the line. He’s here. Fjord can _feel_ it. And he’s gotta get him out of here.

Loud clicking from heeled shoes starts echoing behind him. This is it.

He turns at the last second, doesn’t let any surprise show on his features.

In front of him stands a small woman that, somehow, still manages to look imposing. She looks— severe. Weathered, despite her fancy clothes. Her short brown-blond hair doesn’t look soft and the scar going down one side of her face looks like it hasn’t healed properly.

But— Fjord can see it. How her severe features could have been attractive someday before they turned mean. There’s no blood on her dress. His stomach turns anyway.

Astrid clears her throat.

“Hello.” Her accent is nothing like Caleb’s, so soft it almost disappears — the accent of someone who’s been away from home for a long time. “How may I help you, stranger?”

“Oh, I apologize, I didn’t even introduce myself, did I?” His voice softens and his shoulders curl in as he approaches, trying to make himself as unassuming as possible. “I’m F—” He hurriedly squashes the instinct to be honest and works through a stock of names inside his own head. “Feelid. Feelid Tealeaf. Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.” He extends a hand.

Astrid raises an eyebrow and takes it. “And you too, Mister Tealeaf.” Her grip is limp at best — not trying to make a point. Because she doesn’t need to. Right. She drops his hand. “And how can I be of aid?”

“Oh, it’s not so much and true aid and more… information.” Fjord smiles, sheepish. “I’ve been working with the Cerberus Assembly for a while now, you see,” He says, pulling the amulet from inside his tunic so she can see it. “Most of the money I make goes to my daughter’s education — she’s kind of a magical prodigy, just like her father. When I asked Master Hass about the Soltryce Academy, he pointed me this way.”

“Oh, he did?” There’s a glint in her eyes.

“Yes, believe it or not. I’m looking for, how would you call it— student reviews and you seem to be a model alumnus, according to him. I’d like to hear about your experience.”

Astrid stares at him in silence, almost like she’s giving him an out. Fjord stares back, unwavering, with as much sincerity in his gaze as possible.

She smiles. “Of course. How does talking over a cup of tea sound?”

Fjord sweats. This is way too easy, he knows, but he doesn’t have another option. “Sounds swell, ma’am.”

She leads him through another hall in the house, stopping a servant on the way to ask for tea and biscuits and for him to call her ' _associate’_ over. Nervousness wraps around Fjord’s stomach.

Astrid leads him into a sitting room, furnished just as sparsely as before, and gestures to one of the couches. Fjord sits. She sits across from him. The only thing between them is a pale wood coffee table.

“So, Mister Feelid,” First name basis which means she’s trying to be friendly. Even though she doesn’t have to. Okay. “What would you like to know?”

“Oh, just about everything really. The sign up process, the hours, the materials, what the classes are like, what the teachers are like…”

“How old is your daughter again?”

“Twelve years old, ma’am.”

“And already so advanced?”

“I did say she was a prodigy.”

“Indeed.”

Before the conversation can go on further, there’s a knock on the door and the man from before comes in after Astrid assents, carrying a silver tray with a teapot, three tea cups, and a plate with biscuits.

He sets down and leaves without a word. Astrid picks a teacup and blows off some of the steam. Fjord mirrors her. She takes a sip. Fjord doesn’t. There’s no guarantee that it’s safe.

“So… About your experience, Miss Astrid…”

She smiles. “Yes, of course. I was never the best in class at the beginning,” _No, because Caleb was, isn’t that right?_ “But it wasn’t very hard. It shouldn’t be, especially for someone as smart as your daughter seems to be. The hours got progressively longer as I advanced grades, obviously, like in any other school.”

She watches him as she speaks, with such intent behind it that Fjord feels forced to take a sip from the tea cup. Or at least pretend to. He tilts it, wets his lips, and doesn’t lick them.

Astrid hums. Fjord hums back.

There’s another knock on the door. The person outside doesn’t wait for Astrid to speak this time.

Entering the room is the man from the asylum, one of Ikithon’s _‘favorite associates’_ , as the archmage himself had put it, the man that got such a strong reaction from Caleb in such few words. The guy Caleb had made him look like before — tall, muscled, short cropped hair and striking blue eyes.

Which means his half-assed disguise is busted. Fuck. **_Fuck._ **

He doesn’t let the surprise show on his face and— Wulf? He doesn’t seem at Fjord’s presence either.

“I hope you don’t mind Eodwulf joining us,” Astrid says, pulling his attention back to her. “He also studied at the Academy. Was in the same class me, in fact.” _And Caleb,_ Fjord’s brain supplies. _You, Eodwulf and Caleb. And now you’re keeping him._

Eodwulf has a dirty rag in his hand that he keeps playing with and using to clean his fingers, clean his palm. Fjord can’t tell if the stains on it are from grease or blood.

He pulls his eyes away from Eodwulf’s hands and smiles. “Of course not. The more I know, the better.”

It doesn’t take him long to realize they are the kind of predators who like to play with food before eating it. Mentioning names like he’s supposed to know them, insistently praising the Academy, talking about complex magic with the intent of making him feel stupid. And worst of all, their toothy, sharp grins — it makes anger bubble up inside him.

His arm doesn’t hurt anymore but it’s so numb it’s like it doesn’t even belong to him.

He gets up abruptly, midway through one of their sentences, he can’t tell which — it’s all so much bullshit that the two of them kind of start to blend together. He smiles, in that awkward way commoners do in the presence of royalty.

“I actually really need the restroom, I believe my bodily needs are impairing my mental faculties.”

“Of course, I will—”

“Oh, there’s no need.” He reaches the door in two long steps. “I could never impose on such _gracious_ hosts. I’ll find my way about.” He’s at the door, walking down the hall and turning a corner in a blink.

The hallway is empty and Fjord rushes to cast _Disguise Self_ with a wave of his hand. The illusion looks just like the servant from before and he struggles to be just as silent and as plain.

He walks, and turns another corner just as a rush of steps echoes down the corridor. Astrid and Eodwulf walk by the cranny he’s milling about in without sparing him a glance.

Fjord breathes a little easier but he knows he’s not out of the woods yet.

The house is big enough to get lost in, even though it isn’t as big as some of the others he’s seen in town. There are no hints about where he should go to find the room they probably use as some sort of torture chamber. He just lets whatever magic tethers him to Caleb now guide him. It worked once before, it might work again. It _has_ to work again.

He takes turns seemingly at random, always walking the other way when he hears raised voices. It’s only after he worms himself into a small, narrow door and walks down a set of stairs that he catches it: Caleb’s scent. And the smell of blood, very faint. And stronger, and so much worse, enough to make him tear up: the smell of fear.

He strides down the hall with purpose, ignoring all other doors he walks by. The door Caleb’s scent wafts from is nondescript, the exact same as all others, but it isn’t closed correctly, like whoever was inside — Wulf, he’s sure — left in a rush.

Fjord walks inside.

The room is bright — too bright: silvery, arcane lights reflecting off pristine white walls. There’s a drain in a corner and nothing else.

Caleb is laying on the ground in the middle of the room. It all seems fine at first: there’s no pool of blood underneath him, he’s not choking on his own vomit and he’s still breathing — Fjord can see his chest rising up and down from the door.

But Caleb doesn’t react when fjord approaches. He doesn’t react when Fjord kneels down by his side. And he doesn’t react when Fjord calls his name.

There’s a little bit of blood trickling down his nose — _broken again?_ — and the smudge of a bruise on his cheek. That’s all injury Fjord can _see._ But Caleb’s got that empty, blank look in his eyes, the one that comes over him when he hurts someone with fire.

Fjord’s heart aches, half in relief — _I found him, I found him, I found him_ — and half in pain — _what were they_ ** _doing_** _to him?_ — but he can feel his arm again and it isn’t even sore, like nothing ever happened to it.

So he moves, picking Caleb up as best as he can and making sure to telegraph his movements and what he’s about to do:

“I’m gonna have to pick you up, Caleb.” 

“I’m putting your arm around my shoulders, okay?”

“Lifting you up now, Cay, let’s go, _oof_ —”

And Caleb remains silent through all of it, doesn’t even hiss when Fjord jostles him on accident. He puts up no resistance, is easily moved, like he’s not all there. Concern gnaws at him.

He walks slowly, steadily — Caleb isn’t heavy but Fjord also isn’t very strong. The stair steps are very rough and Fjord is very proud.

He doesn’t even get to take a breath when they reach the landing outside the tiny door before he hears steps down the hall, coming in their direction. Fuck. _Fuck._ He can’t even fight with Caleb like this. **_Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck_** —

There’s a big window right by their side, leading to the back side of the manor. The street isn’t exactly busy but there’s some movement and no guards nearby.

He blinks and _Misty Step_ s outside. Caleb doesn’t startle like he expected and doesn’t whimper when he puts him down either.

He doesn’t hear steps following them outside or glass breaking. Fjord moves them a little, to the shadow of a nearby building. He cleans the blood off Caleb’s face before taking off his cloak and putting it on his shoulders. Caleb swims in it — it would be cute if he didn’t look so lost.

Fjord sets his jaw, puts his arm around Caleb’s shoulders and walks.

* * *

The people at the inn don’t stare when they walk in this time but Fjord’s shoulders don’t unwind. He stops by Caleb’s room for the blanket on his bed before entering his own and locking the door behind him.

He moves Caleb to the bed and he sits down at the slightest push. Fjord barely holds back a dismayed noise.

_Okay._ Okay. Okay. He can do this.

He puts his hands on Caleb’s shoulders and casts _Lay On Hands_. The bruise on his face fades and he’s pretty sure his nose sets but it may just be a light trick.

Caleb’s eyes brighten a little but he doesn’t say anything.

Fjord kneels slowly and unties his boots. His socks are eggshell yellow, clearly mended many times, but there’s still a little hole by his pinky. Fjord could cry.

Caleb’s eyes follow him when he straightens up. His eyelashes are red blond and so long, fanning out prettily. He swallows.

He wraps Caleb up in blankets, tightly like one of those sandwiches he ate at Port Zoon once, wraps him up so tight that he can’t move his arms, the edges of the blankets pressing up against his jaw and making his cheeks puffy.

Fjord takes off his own boots, his capelet, his pauldron, his leg guard, and his bracers as Caleb watches. His heart rate finally calms down and his breathing goes back to normal.

Then he sits down by the headboard and presses Caleb back against his chest, holding him tight, surrounding him. Caleb seemed to like that — he snuggled closer, one of the few times they roomed together, after waking up with Fjord on top of him.

Fjord tucks Caleb under his chin and breathes for a moment, before he starts humming a sea shanty, one of the slower ones, one that reminds him of siren song, trying to pet him through the thick blankets.

They stay like that for a long time. Or at least it _feels_ like a long time. Long enough for the _Disguise Self_ spell to fade. Long enough that he starts humming other sea shanties, some he didn’t even know he remembered, reminding him of things he forgot mattered: one of the few times Sabien was genuinely nice to him after joining Vandren’s crew and they jumped around the ship, drinking and— not in love but— _in companionship_. The last time Vandren promoted him. Finding a glass bottle with a hopeful message inside of it while swimming. When Sabien dived and Fjord was so scared the current had swept him away but he rose clutching a pearl he wanted Fjord to have.

Maybe he should find Sabien. Not to wring his neck until it cracks but— just to talk. Astrid’s and Eodwulf’s smiles flash on his mind. Then again, maybe not.

Eventually, Fjord goes silent. He pulls back just a little so he can run his fingers through Caleb’s hair. He never learned to braid hair, at least not well, not deftly — his hair has never been long enough and he never had anyone to practice on (Sabien’s hair reached his waist but it was as dry as wheat and he never let anyone touch it) — but Caleb’s hair is soft, reaching his shoulders now, and Fjord is pretty sure that he could braid it, if he had enough space to work.

Caleb hums at the second pass of his fingers and says, “That’s nice.”

Fjord doesn’t startle but his answer comes quick. “Hey, Cay.”

“ _Hallo._ ”

“Do you feel okay?”

“ _Ja_ , nothing hurts.”

“Not what I meant.” Not _just_ what he meant, at least.

“...I’m better now. Thank you.”

There’s a pause. It feels like there’s more to say but Caleb stays quiet. Fjord keeps running his fingers through his hair.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?”

He _feels_ Caleb hesitate and waits him out.

“I— Um… Astrid and Eodwulf walk closely with Ikithon.”

“Yeah…”

“And I thought— I could get something incriminating.” Fjord can hear him swallow. “Perhaps I would find something while I was there or— convince them to give it to me. Help me. I thought they—”

“I guess they fought they could help me too. Make me what I was before. Make me see the world the way I did before. I knew there was something wrong but— I couldn’t find a way to— get away and they just—”

“They took me there and used spells on me and kept _talking_ and it was like back then but I didn’t _want_ it, I didn’t, it hurt—”

“Hey, Cay, it’s okay, you’re okay. You didn’t do anything, you’re okay now, you’re safe.” He kisses his temple, wispy flyways tickling his lips.

Caleb turns in his arms, fights off some of the blankets and wraps his arms around Fjord’s waist, resting his head on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Being reckless when I knew what would happen.”

“You knew?”

“I did. In a way.”

“I could feel it, y’know.” Caleb looks up at him. “Your pain.” He raises his hand and Caleb touches the scar running across his palm lightly, reverently. “And it just kept spreading. For as long as it lasted. For as long as we were apart. I knew it was you. I knew I had to get you.”

Caleb laces their fingers together and kisses each one of his knuckles. “Thank you, Fjord.”

Fjord kisses his cheek and Caleb’s long, pretty eyelashes flutter. “Don’t ever do that again.”

Caleb smiles. “Okay.”

“I’m serious.”

He laughs, “Okay!” and Fjord’s heart skips a beat.

**Author's Note:**

> find me @bicalebwidogast on twitter!!! feedback is welcome!!!


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